Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  PRETTY CITY

  MURDER

  Robert E Dunn

  Pretty City Murder

  Robert E Dunn

  Email: robert@robertedunn.com

  Published by Robert E Dunn Publishing

  First published in the United States of America

  Copyright © Robert E Dunn, 2018

  All rights reserved

  Print ISBN: 978-0-692-10654-9

  Cover art by Milan Jovanovic.

  Cover photography by CanStockPhoto 19234241.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to

  Heather Wilder

  Michael Routery

  Joe Gartrell

  Ben Gibson

  Mark Malatesta

  Kevin Martin

  Sara Pineda

  Zora Knauf

  Lily Knauf

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  There is nothing concealed that will not be revealed, nothing hidden that will not be known. Everything you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight; what you have whispered in locked rooms will be proclaimed from the rooftops.

  Luke 12:2-3

  Chapter 1

  Thursday, July 4

  Larry Leahy sat at the kitchen table and lifted a spoonful of oatmeal mush. He grabbed a granola bar and smelled its nuttiness. The previous week, his doctor had said, “Your skin is smooth and pink. You are five feet nine inches and weigh 180 lbs. Lose five.” He heard the hall clock chime six times as if time were running out, and in between bongs his cell phone beeped and vibrated.

  “Leahy.”

  “Larry?”

  “James, what’s wrong?”

  “My security people tell me an ex-employee was seen on the twelfth floor. They told him to leave. Now, he’s reentered the building and is in the garage.”

  “Call the police.”

  “I’ve tried that before, and it hasn’t worked. This guy keeps coming back.”

  James sounds worried.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gerald Smith.”

  “When did you fire him?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Big. I think he’s thirty-five, dirty blond hair, pony tail.”

  “What’s he wearing?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “All right. Tell them to keep an eye on him. I’ll be in there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks. You remember our lunch date at noon today? Are we still on?”

  “Sure. Have security meet me...what floor are your people on?”

  “First floor.”

  “Are there cameras in the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Have them watch me and Smith on camera. If there’s trouble, tell them to back me up. I’ll call Inspector Trang and have him meet me there.”

  “Is he close?”

  “Trang lives in North Beach, near Chinatown. He may get there before I do, but I’ll fill him in on the details, and don’t worry about it, James, we’ll help Smith see the light, or else.”

  “Thanks.”

  He quickly stuffed the granola bar into his black jacket. Lauren was still upstairs and would be annoyed to find his unwashed mush bowl sitting on the table, but he didn’t have time to worry about cleaning up. With the agility of a much younger man, he jumped down the inside staircase to the basement. The police radio sputtered to life as he grabbed the flashing red light off the rubber mat and slapped it on the roof.

  He punched the number three while driving. His police badge bounced on his sternum when his red Chevy Tahoe hit cracks and potholes.

  “Hieu, can you meet at the Greenwich on Mason across from the Hilton? The Greenwich owner wants an ex-employee out of the hotel. He’s in the garage, so park out in front in the white zone, and don’t forget the parking placard. His name is Gerald Smith, and we’ll make sure he’s not in the hotel lobby or anywhere else but the garage. As I recall, the stairs to the garage are near the elevators. Just follow me. How are you?”

  “Ready to go, chief.”

  “Very good. Let’s do some good today.”

  Larry passed St. Ignatius Catholic Church, the University of San Francisco’s Italianate chapel, sitting majestically on the hill, its twin towers obscured by invading fog.

  No Mass today.

  Hieu’s black Toyota Forerunner left just enough space for Larry to park.

  “Where to?”

  “Follow me.”

  The lobby was eerily quiet. Larry looked at his watch: 6:30 a.m. They walked past the front desk and down the hall. He found the stairs next to the elevator, right where he remembered they’d be, and felt the sponginess of new Venetian red carpet on the treads.

  At the far end of the garage stood three men, one of them facing the other two. Larry looked over at Hieu, whose gray, pin-striped suit was buttoned up.

  One of the Hispanic men had his hand on the chest of the man who fit the description. They were arguing. The third man was tall and muscular and stood behind his partner. They were dressed in the same colors – green, white, and red. The ceiling was low, making Larry’s perspective tunnel-like, but it expanded as they got nearer to the convocation.

  He heard the muscular one say, “It’s a trade, your debt for a gun.”

  “I don’t have a gun, doofus.”

  When the short one saw Larry and Hieu, he dropped his hand, reached under his bright green shirt, and extracted a shiny semi-automatic from behind a belt.

  Any hope for friendly relations had ceased.

  Larry charged forward just as the Caucasian man grabbed the short one around his neck. He broke free, swung his fist, and felled Larry. Hieu axed the tough guy’s wrist, and the gun hit the pavement and bounced like a firecracker. Larry reached for the gun, which was a foot away, and grabbed it.

  Hieu turned his man around and shoved him against a parked car. From his belt he carefully unhinged handcuffs and snapped them shut.

  Larry got on his feet and growled, “You two, stand on either side of the car. No, come forward. Stand a foot from the rear end.”

  Hieu told his man, “You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

  He protested, “Dude, I didn’t know you was the police.”

  “You, what’s your name?” Larry asked.

  “Gerald Smith.”

  “You?”

  “Pablo.”

  “Pablo what?”

  “Morales.”

  “What’s your business here?”

  “I work here.”

  “What about the guy with the charm bracelets on? Know him?”

  “Yeah, he’s my friend, but I didn’t know he had a gun.”

  “What about you? You work here, too, Smith?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Inspector Trang, read your man his rights. You two, come with me.”

  Hieu recited the magic words.

  “You and you, get out in front of me and start walking toward the stairs at the end of the garage. Morales, what were you doing in the garage? Don’t you belong inside?”


  “No, man, I don’t have to be at work until three.”

  “Then why were you here?”

  No response.

  “All right, Smith, why were you here?”

  Smith and his pony tail turned.

  “Keep facing forward and keep walking.”

  With only his face turned around, Smith said, “Look, officer, I live in the neighborhood and happened to walk into the garage and saw these two guys and we started talking.”

  “That’s bullshit. This is the last time you come into the Greenwich. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith responded, in a Southern drawl.

  “Morales, Smith, I’ll be walking you to the front door. Don’t turn around to talk to me or anyone else.”

  “What about my homie?”

  “What about him? He’s been arrested, and you won’t be seeing him for the rest of the day.”

  Larry kept his hand on his service revolver as they walked back through the hotel.

  The lobby is still quiet – normal?

  Larry waved his pair toward the door. “Don’t want to hear or see you for the rest of your lives.” They stepped outside. “And Smith, if I see your mangy shoes and you attached to them inside this building again, I’ll be ringing your doorbell.” Smith made a funny, crooked sort of smile, and then both men disappeared quickly.

  Larry reached for his back and massaged a sore spot.

  In the lobby, Hieu was marching his man out in front.

  “What’s his name, Inspector?”

  “Carlos Ortiz.”

  “All right. Call Central and wait here. I’ll be talking to O’Hara.”

  Larry saw a sleepy clerk looking surprised.

  “Is Mr. O’Hara’s office on the second floor?”

  “Yes, sir. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Larry took the elevator to the second floor, turned right, and pulled on the double doors. The doors were locked. His cell phone beeped and vibrated again.

  “Leahy.”

  “It’s Father Ralph.”

  “What’s wrong, Ralph?”

  “It’s about Cornelius.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “He got a phone call saying his life is in danger.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He didn’t know. What should we do?”

  “You want me to talk to him?”

  “Yes, if you could. Is it too much trouble? Am I worrying too much?”

  “No, not at all, Ralph. I’m already here at the Greenwich. Remind me of his room number.”

  “1212.”

  “All right. Sit tight. I’ll see what it’s all about.”

  “God bless.”

  “Thank you.”

  After rechecking his service revolver, he rode the rode elevator up and checked his watch: 7:05 a.m.

  Cornelius greeted him at the door.

  “Hi, Cornelius. May I come in?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Cornelius looked startled.

  Inside the entry hall, Larry said, “Your brother tells me you had an anonymous phone caller say that your life is in danger. Is that right?”

  “My brother told you?”

  “Yes, he did.” Larry saw that the apartment was large and well-furnished. “Can we sit somewhere?”

  “Please come this way.”

  They entered the living room. Cornelius sat down on a black silk Orient Express chesterfield, one of a matching set, and Larry took a seat on the opposite one. Cornelius looked at Larry without a smile or any sign of emotion, and only a port-wine birthmark below the right eye marred skin as immaculate as the casing of a peach. A fan on the side table puffed air, and tendrils of gray hair floated on his head.

  “Do you know who called and said your life is in danger?”

  On the coffee table lay an opened Chronicle, a pair of reading glasses, a yellow highlighter, and a bowl of oatmeal mush sitting on a tea towel. Cornelius hurriedly picked up a page of the newspaper that had fallen on the floor. The redness in his face slowly disappeared after he had reassembled the pages. Headlines had been highlighted. He seemed to have forgotten the question or lost his concentration.

  Questions with a simple “yes” or “no” as an answer would be better.

  “What time was the call?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  Larry once heard Father Ralph discuss his brother’s disabilities with another priest. “Cornelius couldn’t achieve grade-level on state tests. The school district formed a plan and discussed it with my parents.” Larry could still see Cornelius’ Mission High School yearbook picture and his linen complexion in the picture. A program for others like him and coaching from his mother, the ex-nun, got him through.

  Larry began to suspect that Cornelius was having difficulty answering questions, even the simplest ones. He couldn’t predict how much Cornelius would be able to grasp. The degree to which Father Ralph had overprotected Cornelius was about to be revealed.

  Let’s start again.

  Larry took out a small notepad and pen from his jacket’s inside pocket.

  “Was it a male caller?”

  “Yes...yes, I think so.”

  There it is.

  The shyness in his manner remained. He avoided direct eye contact. It didn’t suggest dislike or resistance, just shyness.

  “Did the voice sound old or young?”

  “I don’t know...I don’t know.” Cornelius wrung his hands.

  “All right. Don’t worry.”

  “Did I answer all your questions?”

  “You did fine.”

  They sat in silence.

  Larry wanted to help Cornelius understand what kind of information they should be after, and he searched his reservoir of interview experiences. An old memory popped up, and he could hear Father Ralph retelling the story. Cornelius got lost one day on public transit and struggled to explain where he wanted to go when he was on the Muni bus, and where he had been once he got off. Had he not been seen by a family friend, Cornelius might not have arrived back home to explain his three-hour absence.

  A worried mother had asked her other son, Father Ralph, for advice. He had called Larry.

  I suggested transportation for the handicapped. It was nixed. Cornelius could do better.

  “Did you ask his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did the man say?”

  “He hung up.”

  Cornelius picked up the bowl of mush and headed for the kitchen.

  Larry looked at his watch. A quarter after seven. Cornelius’ docile nature made Larry think about himself and how hardened he had become. It happened whenever he encountered innocence or confusion. He sat there, staring at Cornelius, and rolled his shoulders. They felt sore, exacerbated by the fall in the garage and the blues that had started after breakfast. Cornelius’ simplicity caused Larry more discomfort; he knew that Cornelius would have a tough time sensing threat.

  “Thank you, Cornelius. I’ll show myself out.”

  Running water at the kitchen sink blotted out Larry’s voice.

  Suddenly, Cornelius turned and said, “I go to Mass at noon every day at St. Patrick’s Church. I walk there. Ralph says the fresh air is good for me.” He dried a dish with a small white towel. “Will you see Ralph today?”

  Larry ripped out a page of his notepad and scribbled his phone number. He walked to the edge of a half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room and handed Cornelius the note. “Call me if you get another bad phone call. Okay?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you for coming.”

  “You have a good day.” They shook hands. Though his grip was firm, in an instant, Cornelius appeared as innocent as a bird who’d lost all its feathers, or a man for whom a cop would lie or destroy evidence.

  In the hall outside the door, Larry called Father Ralph.

  “If there’s another one, tell him to keep the caller on the line and use his landline to reach me. Do you have any ideas who thi
s caller could be?”

  “No, none.”

  “Okay. How is he doing, Ralph?”

  “He plans to retire next month and live up at Topaz Lake. How did he seem to you?”

  “Oh, fine.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Well, the letter from Mark still bothers me...you told me to meet his girlfriend. Isn’t that encouraging them to keep living in sin?”

  Father Ralph chuckled. “Well, maybe, it’s better to have simple problems like Cornelius. We’ll talk again about Mark.”

  “Ralph, Cornelius made your parents proud, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but mother wanted him to live at home and not move into the Greenwich.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “God bless, Larry.”

  “Thanks.”

  Larry walked to the elevators and thought about the MacKenzie parents, and about Father Ralph, Cornelius, and their sister, Anne. They lived at Number 10, Fifth Avenue, right next door to the O’Hara family. James O’Hara had contact with Cornelius, and much more after he came to work at the Greenwich and became O’Hara’s concern. Larry wondered if O’Hara would be any help giving Cornelius one night of extra protection.

  Over time, Larry had picked up colorless bread crumbs of information about Cornelius. He was supervisor of bellhops, lived alone, and could take care of himself. Cook? Love a woman? Larry didn’t know.

  At the elevator, he began planning the next phone call, pulled out a 3X5 booklet with Mary in rose and blue on the cover, and read the prayer to the Holy Spirit.

  Let my weakness be penetrated with Your Strength this very day that I may fulfill all the duties of my state conscientiously, that I may do what is right and just.

  Larry punched in some numbers.

  “What do you want, Leahy? I’m at city hall with the mayor. Make it fast.”

  “I’m concerned about the brother of a friend of mine – Cornelius. Mackenzie. He oversees bellhops at the Greenwich Grand Hotel. He got a phone call saying his life’s in danger. I think we should post an officer at the Greenwich for a couple of days. That’s my request.”

  Larry heard his own appeal ringing in his ears. The captain didn’t expect too much precision, and he wasn’t the kind of man who’d listen to a proposal, say he’d think about, and then fire off a rejection letter the next day.